I slide back up into a sitting position and wrap my legs around the pole, swinging my ponytail back before I lean forward again and glide my way back up into a standing position. Next, I have to reach up and remove my bra, feeling the sweat pouring down my spine and chest.
I smell like the lilac perfume that Tiffany soaks herself in backstage, glitter sparkling all over my breasts as I toss the red bra aside and sway my way to the front, dropping low and sliding my fingers along my inner thighs, my thigh highs kept up with a little bit of well-placed body glue. It's a good trick for keeping them on after the garter belts come undone.
Dan and his friends are shouting for me to flash some pussy but that's not going to happen. Sorry. Thankfully that's illegal around here, giving me a slight reprieve and a small boost to my dignity.
I turn away and trace the stage again, pulling off the garter belt and spinning around the pole, dropping back and hooking my legs around the top so I can twist upside down and press my back to the metal, hair brushing against the stage. When I swing around and come back to my feet, I start one more round to the front, figuring that if Dan and his friends want to be crazy and throw money at me, I might as well take it.
I feel cheap as hell for even thinking that, like some dog chasing after bones.
Tears prick my eyes suddenly, but I blink them back, refusing to let myself go down that road again. I made my choice; I'm here; I'll make the best of it. For some reason, thoughts of Zayden pop up in my head: his smile, the warmth of his hands, his lips against my neck as he comes.
He's made this bearable so far, but I'm struggling to figure out how I'm going to do this once he's gone.
When I turn around at the end of the stage and use my shoulders for a little downward shimmy, things go from bad … to fucking awful. Dan and his friends are still shouting, telling me to show my shit, their faces bathed in shadow and the awful edge of the spotlight above my head. As soon as I take my eyes off of them, I hear commotion and then suddenly there's just this hand in my hair, dragging me back so hard that I fall, heels slipping out from under me.
Just like Grace did at the playground.
I go down heavy on the stage, the breath exploding from my lungs, and then I'm being dragged over the side. My body spins as I fall, knees and elbows connecting with the floor as the hand in my hair tightens and pulls. There's movement around me, probably the bouncers, but I'm still struggling to catch my breath and blink past the sudden tears in my eyes.
The rough old carpet digs into my knees and palms as I force myself to my feet and grab the edge of the stage to pull myself upright. As soon as I do, I see Dan in the arms of one of the bouncers, thrashing and cursing as he's dragged to the front doors. One of the other employees snaps a photo of him before he's thrown out; he won't be allowed back in here ever again.
“You fucking cunt!” he screams, right before he's dragged outside. I stand in stunned silence as the rest of Dan's friends are escorted out, crossing my arms tight over my bare chest as I struggle to keep my breathing slow, my eyes focused on the tinted doors at the front of the building.
God. I can't believe this is happening. And it's not just that my scalp hurts and my knees are bleeding, my elbows stinging. But I have to go to class with that a-hole. I have sit there during a lecture and wonder if his eyes are on me or what he's thinking about me. Not that I give a shit … because I don't.
I swear, I don't.
Tiffany hustles over to me in a black robe and puts her arms around me. She smells like that floral perfume, flaking glitter all over my bare tits.
“Come on, honey,” she says as she pulls me away from the main floor and the manager catches up to us, asking me if I'm alright, telling me to take a minute. At least he looks somewhat concerned, a nice change of pace considering his usual attitude towards me.
“I'm fine,” I say, lifting up a hand as he pauses outside the curtain to the dressing room, and we go in. I slip on a t-shirt, let Tiffany set me up in one of the chairs next to the vanity and bring me a soda from the bar. The fizzy bubbles race over my tongue as I consider how the hell I'm going to deal with Dan come tomorrow.
“Are you okay?” she asks for the tenth time as she takes a seat next to me. “Looks like you went down pretty hard.” I cringe and reach up to rub at the back of my head, feeling a slight scabbing of blood on my scalp.
“I'm okay, really,” I say as I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look huge and dark, and even though I've slathered on thick stage makeup, I look young. Too young. It's creeping me out a little to be honest. “Well, physically. I mean, it hurts, but that's not really the issue.” I turn to look at Tiffany, and I wonder what her story is. She must have one, right? I bet all these girls do. Some—maybe all of them—might have stories worse than mine. “I go to school with that guy,” I say and she nods, watching me with big, beautiful blue eyes. She has this mothering vibe about her that makes me think she's older than she really is. Looking at her now, she can't be any older than Zayden.
Zayden.